Seeing Spots
by njbrennan
Summary: (Downton Abbey/101 Dalmatians crossover): During a casual lunchtime stroll in London with their Dalmatians, Edith Crawley and Anthony Strallan will discover that sometimes man's best friend can become man's best matchmaker. All characters belong to Julian Fellows and Dodie Smith.


A/N: So, after watching both versions of _101 Dalmatians_ and after reading so many Tumblr posts about the similarities between these two couples, I've decided to write a _Downton Abbey_/_101 Dalmatians _crossover fic! This story will combine elements of the 1961 and 1996 versions of the film, as well as our beloved couple's storyline.

I intended it to be a one-shot, but after outlining, it looks like it's going to be about four or five chapters. This first chapter is a bit on the short side and will serve merely as an introduction. Plot-thickening is sure to occur later on ;)

I hope you enjoy this goofy little story and as always, I'd love to hear your thoughts about it :)

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Edith Crawley felt an eerie presence behind her, as though something was hovering over her shoulder. Her chestnut eyes darted to and fro about her cluttered desk and she turned around to inspect what had so unnerved her.

Two beady, black eyes met her gaze, staring deeply at her. A smug, some would even say devilish, grin stretched across Michael Gregson's face and Edith felt her stomach churn.

"Morning, Miss Crawley," her boss greeted in the most goading way. The man practically dripped with arrogance, from his dark hair slicked back to reveal a premature white streak to his pinstripe suit, tailored to make his shoulders appear broader than they actually were.

"Good morning, Mr. Gregson," she replied, just a decibel about a whisper.

"What are you writing this morning, darling?" the editor inquired coolly as he inhaled quick puffs of his cigar.

She loathed his presumptuous endearments so early in the workday, and all day, as it stood. "I'm writing a piece about animal testing in the cosmetics industry," Edith told him as she pulled her navy cardigan tighter around her body. "It's a vile practice and the public isn't even aware of how far widespread it is. I'm not done with all of the research yet, so this here is a very rough draft."

Gregson inched closer to Edith's desk and leaned forward to read her computer monitor. His eyes scanned the screen for a few moments, and then darted to a framed photo of a spotty dog amongst the clutter of files and jars of pens.

"Hits close to home, does it, Crawley?" Gregson observed as gestured to the photo, spilling ashes onto her desk without a care.

"As a matter of fact, it does. My Dalmatian, Perdita, was rescued from such a facility a few years ago and it took such a long time to rehabilitate her. What they did to her was…well, it was unspeakable."

Edith half-expected Gregson to express some modicum of sympathy, as many normal human beings might have done. But he only snickered.

"Darling, would you mind stepping into my office for a moment?"

She stared rather blankly at him, for Gregson seldom asked people into his office for reasons other than termination.

"Come on, Crawley! Pip, pip!" he jeered, clapping his hands together.

She followed him reluctantly, trailing after the cloud of cigar smoke that he left in his wake. Scuttling past the long rows of writers' desks, Edith noticed that her co-workers were all looking at her the way one looks at a wounded baby animal. This wasn't going to be good.

Once inside Gregson's office, with its dark walls and stern artwork, Edith sat uncomfortably in the seat across from his desk. A lanky, redheaded young man appeared a moment later and dropped off a tea tray and as he did, Edith noticed that there was a rather obvious tremor in his hands.

Poor thing is as nervous as I am, Edith thought.

"Thank you, Alfred," Gregson said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "That will be all."

Alfred gratefully accepted his discharge and scurried out of the room in an instant.

Turning his attention back to the young writer in his office, Gregson began, "Now, Edith darling, do you know why I've called you into my office this morning?"

"You didn't allude to the reasons, so, no, I do not," she replied somewhat bitterly.

Gregson leaned back in his chair and rested his legs upon the desk. "You're a silly one, aren't you?" he asked slyly. "No, the real reason I called you in here was to discuss your outstanding work performance."

"My what?" Edith asked, utterly confused. This was decidedly _not_ why people were called into Michael Gregson's office.

"How long have you been working for me, for the _Sketch_?"

"Um, two years ago last August."

"And I don't see you socially?" Edith shook her head, her brow furrowed in puzzlement. "What a pity."

"I'm sorry, but-"

"And you're relatively unknown, despite your obvious talent."

"Thank-"

"Your work is fresh and clean, unfettered and unpretentious," Gregson interrupted again as he rested his elbows on the desk, letting his cigar smoke slowly escape from his mouth. "It won't be long until my competitors suss out who you are and snatch you up from underneath me!"

"Oh, if I left, it wouldn't be for another job."

"Oh?" he asked with raised eyebrows. Flicking the ashes of his cigar into the ashtray, he pried, "And what would that be?"

Edith let out a nervous chuckle as she smoothed her grey pencil skirt down. "Well, you know…if I met somebody, if working here didn't fit in with our plans…"

Gregson narrowed his focus on the young woman. "Marriage? More good women were lost to marriage than to war, famine, disease, and disaster! You have talent, Edie, darling. Don't squander it!"

"Oh, well I don't think you have to worry about _that_ anytime soon, Mr. Gregson. I don't have any prospects."

Feeling satisfied by this revelation, Gregson leaned back in his chair once more. "Thank God."

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Anthony Strallan was fast asleep in his warm bed, engulfed in a sea of crisp, white comforters and matching pillows. He had pressed the snooze button of his alarm clock more times than he cared to admit and promptly drifted back to his early morning reveries.

Pongo, the Dalmatian, however, was having none of his master's late rising. He wanted a bone, or three, and lacked the requisite digits to gain access to the doggy biscuit jar. Pongo's attempt at a stealthy entry into the bedroom, however, seemed to be quashed by the thumping of his long, spotty tail excitedly hitting everything in his path.

Anthony's hand was draped over the edge of the bed, dangling within Pongo's reach. With his head hanging low, Pongo went in for the attack.

First, he nudged up against it with his snout. When that failed to wake his master, Pongo licked his palm and fingers. Anthony retracted his arm, frustrating the pooch.

The Dalmatian knew desperate measures were called for at this point. He jumped up on the bed, climbed atop of Anthony's torso, and began licking the man's face. Anthony seemed to enjoy it for a moment before realizing where those sensations were coming from.

"Hey now!" he groaned at his playful pooch. "That's not very friendly, old boy!"

Pongo, glad to see his master finally awake, barked at him as he rolled over on the bed. Anthony rubbed Pongo's belly and tried to pull him along with him as he sunk back into the pillows. The Dalmatian growled and Anthony recognized the cue as one that demanded food that instant.

"Okay, okay! I get it," he exclaimed as he threw his legs over the side of the bed. "I'm peckish this morning, too."

Pulling a soft, cotton robe over his nightclothes, Anthony shuffled to his kitchen with his dog faithfully at his side. He fished out a handful of dog biscuits and threw them to Pongo before fixing a kettle of tea and a large bowl of oatmeal and cinnamon for himself.

The human-canine duo sat together in Anthony's garden, enjoying their respective breakfasts and the early morning sunlight.

"It's a lovely day, isn't it Pongo?" The dog nuzzled Anthony's leg affectionately and resumed munching on his biscuits.

After a quick walk for Pongo to do his business, and a shower and a shave for Anthony, the two bachelors settled into their daily routine. Anthony sat at his piano, working out a melody for a new shampoo commercial that he was commissioned to compose while Pongo gnawed on some squeaky toys near the piano bench.

The little London flat was filled with tinkling, melodious sounds, cut by the scribbling of a pencil on the musical score and the squeaking of a rubber doughnut.

The days passed like this often enough, their routine providing a comfort that both human and canine found agreeable.

But lunchtime would be arriving shortly and during the hour-long respite from pianos and squeaky toys, both Anthony and Pongo would find that perhaps, changes in routine could be found agreeable, too, perhaps even preferred…with the right companion, that is.


End file.
